


The Deconstruction of Falling Stars

by chaletian



Series: Acts of Sacrifice [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaletian/pseuds/chaletian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's year is up. This is how it ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deconstruction of Falling Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series I wrote a few years ago, after _All Hell Broke Loose_ aired. There may have been a "let's write fic using Babylon 5 episodes as titles" going on in my head.

“It’s a good night for the stars.” The voice, not entirely unexpected, comes from behind him, but Dean doesn’t look around.  
  
“Never had much interest,” he says gruffly, shifting over slightly as Jo sits down next to him. He doesn’t look at her, remains flat on his back looking up at the sky. It had been warm – is still warm – but the ground is cooler now, and he rests his palms on the gritty soil, trying to feel connected.  
  
“There’s the Big Dipper.” Jo points, and then leans back on her elbows.  
  
“Ursa Major.”  
  
“I thought you weren’t interested.”  
  
“I wasn’t. Didn’t stop Sammy.” Jo laughs, quietly. The sound blows away too quickly.  
  
“He’s going over some stuff with Bobby and Mom.”  
  
“He won’t find anything.”  
  
“No.” They sit, silently, looking at the stars, until Dean eventually glances at her.  
  
“D’ya bring me a beer?”  
  
“Yeah, Dean, I don’t do enough fetching and carrying in my actual job, I like to do it in my off time too.” He raises an eyebrow, and she, in turn, rolls her eyes. “What?”  
  
“Well, did you?”  
  
“No.” They both lie back down. It’s dark and warm and quiet. Peaceful. Just the earth and the stars and the air in between.  
  
“Are you scared?” Jo’s voice is soft, the voice you use when you’re not sure the other person will answer.  
  
“No.” She doesn’t say anything, just waits. “I don’t know. Maybe. A little.”  
  
“Sam might still…”  
  
“No, he won’t. I don’t want him to.”  
  
“Dean…”  
  
“No, Jo.” He sits up now, twists around so he’s looking out at the blurred hills and starlit sky. “I’m not crazy. I don’t want to die. But…”  
  
“Better you than Sam?”  
  
“It’s what I do.” The words are steady, but his voice begs understanding.  
  
“It’s not what you do,” corrects Jo gently. “It’s who you are.”  
  
“Whatever. You get it, right?”  
  
“Yeah, I get it.”  
  
“And you’ll make sure Sam…”  
  
“We’ll look after him.”  
  
“I know.” Dean lies back down again. It’s getting colder now, the sky darker than it was. “Those’re the Seven Sisters, right?”  
  
“Pleiades. What are you going to do? Tomorrow, I mean.” Dean shrugs, the leather of his jacket dragging over the ground.  
  
“Drive.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“Guess not.”  
  
“I’ll just… drive. I like driving. Hey, Jo?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“D’you wanna… y’know…”  
  
“Dean Winchester, are you suggesting that I give you a pity fuck?”  
  
“Hey, it’s not every day a guy gets to use the ‘I only have one day left to live’ line.”  
  
“About that line?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“It’s really not a winner.”  
  
“OK.” The wind has picked up. Somewhere, in the distance, there comes the sound of a car starting. “Is that a no?”  
  
“Yeah, Dean, it’s a no.” Jo laughs, but the laugh suddenly breaks, and she jumps to her feet, gesturing towards the sky. “There should be a shooting star. Really, there should be. It’s just… this is the kind of night when there should be one.” She’s cold, rubbing her hands up her arms. Dean sits up, looks at her. Sees the dusty soil coating the back of her jeans and her sweater and her hair straggling out of its ponytail. He struggles out of his jacket, hands it to her.  
  
“No shooting stars,” he says, and Jo takes the jacket, puts it on, tries not to cry. No shooting stars. No sudden solution. No hope.  
  
“I wanted a shooting star,” she says, and tries to smile at him. He hugs her, quickly, brusquely.  
  
“Go back in. I’m going to sit out here a while.”  
  
“I’ll bring you a beer.”  
  
“No. It’s OK. I’ll just… I’ll be out here.”  
  
. . .  
  
There’s a shooting star the next night. Jo sits outside, watches it blaze and fall, clutches the jacket closer around her. There’s a shooting star, but it’s too late.


End file.
